


The Here and Now

by Catchclaw



Series: Mental Mimosa [138]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bottom Steve Rogers, Discussion of Switching, Established Relationship, Gleeful Ignoring of Canon, M/M, Memory Loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-11
Updated: 2018-09-11
Packaged: 2019-07-11 00:57:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15961277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: Steve can't remember his past before he started dating Tony. This freaks Tony out. But not Steve.





	The Here and Now

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Established relationship when one person gets amnesia and forgets everything until just before they started dating. Prompt from this [generator](http://bleep0bleep.tumblr.com/prompts).

“You were somebody before you met me, you know.”

Steve blinks up at him, doe-eyed and serious. “I have to take your word for that.”

“God, Steve, you can’t...you can’t be fucking serious with this. You can’t.” There’s a clutch around Tony’s heart, like a chestbuster, like ten seconds from now he’s gonna go John Hurt all over his nice, shiny clean sheets. “There has to be something--!”

“I’ve been lying here for an hour knocking marbles around in my head, Tone. Believe me, if there were anything left, any memories of me before you, I’d have found them.”

This is the thing about dating Captain America, about being head over heels stupid in love: the man is calm about _everything_ , takes all but injustice in stride. Hell, Tony gets wound up when they’re out of blonde roast coffee, or when JARVIS gets a little too snide; there are a lot of things Tony can handle in the moment that might make other humans go weak in the knees but the little everyday hiccups that have nothing to do with good, evil, or world domination? Those jack Tony’s anxiety up to the max.

But Steve? Steve freaking Rogers, Mr. Star-Spangled Shorts himself? It take a hell of a lot to get him riled up, to get him well and truly freaked. The last time Tony saw him well and truly bugged out was after Clint insisted they all watch _The Exorcist_ , because Clint is an idiot with a thing for the '70s devil oeuvre. Tony had seen in middle school (long story) and after one too many scotches, had slept through most of the thing curled up in Steve’s lap, ignoring Nat’s derisive whoops and Banner’s nervous attempts to science himself out of being scared. But Steve--dear, sweet, lionhearted Steve--had been scared out of his wits, unsettled to the point of not sleeping,  and it’d taken Tony a drunken blowjob and a couple of hours of cuddling to get the flag bearer of the free world to finally try closing his eyes.

All that over a movie and yet apparently waking up with no memory of what had happened in his life before he’d met Tony--before he’d started _dating_ him, oh christ--wasn’t even cause, in Steve Rogers’ book, for raising his goddamn voice.

“How the hell could this happen, though, huh? You swallow a mind-sifter in your sleep, babe?”

“I don’t know what that is, so I’m gonna guess no.”

Tony kisses Steve’s nose because that little smile (how is Steve smiling?!) gets him every time. “Low-resonant Star Trek reference. Forget it. But seriously. Any ideas? You piss off any magicians lately? Because that’s what this feels like, right? Some sort of weird kooky magic?”

Steve brushes his knuckles over Tony’s jaw, over the sleep marks there, the scratch of his overnight scruff. “Maybe.”

“Not buying that one, huh?”

Steve shrugs. “Maybe.” His hand opens and he’s holding Tony’s face now, balancing one whole cheek in his palm. “Or maybe I hit my head at just the right angle on this here headboard when you were inside me last night.”

“Huh. That’s”--Tony huffs out a laugh, ignores the greedy jerk of his hips at the memory--”that’s a hell of an alternate theory.”

“Well,” Steve says, in that same impossibly placid voice, “as I recall, you were trying to fuck me through the mattress."

“As I recall, you asked me to. Loudly. On a vociferous and ongoing basis.”

“Mmmmm.” A rumble that Tony wants to curl into, turn himself into a little ball and tuck up inside. “Yeah, I did.”

Steve’s thumb finds Tony’s mouth and those long arms reel him in, those last, precious centimeters between them dissolving. “So it’s your fault, maybe, that I’m like this. That there’s nothing left in my noggin before I first knew that I loved you.”

“I thought you said you couldn’t remember anything before we started dating.”

He can feel Steve’s smile, which is even worse that being able to see it; the way his lips curve up, sneaky, the unfairly sweet way his mouth bows between the lines of his beard. “Eh. Same difference.”

And then they’re kissing and that’s probably bad. Probably. Making out with somebody who’s been hoodoo-d or who’s got a real specific concussion is not standard medical procedure--of that Tony’s pretty damn sure. He should be hauling Stars and Stripes down to the infirmary, out of this nice warm bed and into some clothes and at least some flip-flops because god knows what’s on the floors in the hallway; there’s a chance he dropped a screw or something he’d carried up from his workshop, and Steve’s had enough issues this morning--a puncture wound is the last thing he needs.

“Tony,” Steve says, hoarse and beautifully breathless, “ok, fine, hospital in a minute, but I need you inside me first.”

“Sorry, sorry. I’m babbling. I didn’t mean to--”

Steve’s fingers grab his wrist, steel, and drives it between their bodies, pushes it into the tight hitch of Steve’s thighs. “I know, I know you didn’t, I just--Can I have this first, please?”

Tony’s whole body stutters at the first stroke, the first hint of the mess he’d made of Steve, the wet stretch he’d left behind. “Baby,” he gets out, rubbing the word against Steve’s throat, “look, you’re not in your right mind, you’re--”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Steve says, desperate. “I remember you, I want this, and the rest of it, we’ll find a way to fix, ok? After. After you--god, Tony. Please.”

He makes it a litany, a long, fevered chant, that doesn’t stop until Tony’s put him on his back, put him on his back and scrabbled for the lube and worked back inside him and he’s so wide like this, Steve, so open and unafraid, always, but especially now, when they’re tangled together, their legs, their hands, each and every shivering breath.

Steve never looks away when they fuck, no matter who’s on top; he beams with the same kind of light, the same searing intensity, the same love that seems to come from everywhere in his being at once.

“You know when I first knew I loved you?” he says in Tony’s ear, those warm, strong hands holding tight to Tony’s ass. “The first millisecond I knew?”

“I didn’t know there was one.” He kisses Steve’s cheek, rubs his mouth against the crest of Steve's beard. “Should I have?”

“Mmmm, no.” Steve arches his back and lifts his hips, the weight of his cock hot against Tony’s stomach. “I guess--I guess I never said.”

“‘K. Higher brain functions are not really an option at the moment, baby, so don’t ask me to fucking guess.”

“You told me no. That’s when I knew. I asked you if you wanted to have dinner with me and you turned me down flat.”

“What?”

“I know, I know it sounds dumb, but it’s true. I asked you out and you turned me down and I felt so _bad_ , Tony. Like you’d kicked me in the damn teeth.”`

Tony laughs, the sound cut up and desperate. “I was mad at you! You asked me out in the middle of an argument, jesus. What the fuck did you think I was going to say? ‘Buy me dinner and all is forgiven’?”

“Kind of,” Steve pants. “Yeah.”

They’d been toe to toe in the Quinjet, Tony good and riled up, Steve actually deigning to raise his voice. There’d been a disagreement in the field, a last-minute change of position, and Tony was hot about it, pissed, ready to throw down the second they’d finished the fight.

And he’d relished it, arguing with Steve--not the first time, sure as fuck not the last--because Steve had been visibly angry, cutting Tony off every 10 seconds and almost shouting in front of everyone, for god’s sake, losing his shit like that in front of the whole team and Tony remembered some part of him marveling that he could wind Cap up this hard, knock him so far off his cool and collected game.

He’d enjoyed that fight, was the thing, taken some real pleasure in watching Steve’s blood fucking boil--over nothing, over strategy, over shit that mattered not fucking at all--and then, while he was in the middle of a really good, '90s Dennis Miller-esque rant, Steve had interrupted, had said:

“Can I buy you dinner, when we’re on the ground?”

Tony remembered his bewilderment, the way the words had skittered sideways out of his mouth and poured onto the floor. “What?”

“Once we land,” Cap had said, still right there in his face. “A steak, maybe. A bottle of wine? Or maybe a fancy hamburger.”

Tony had been the one to step back, the one to gape and stumble away. “Get real,” he’d stuttered. “And get fucked, Rogers. Next time you pull a stunt like that, I’m not saving your ass, you got that?"

“Seriously?” Tony says now, biting at the turn of Steve’s shoulder, snuffling back a laugh. “Then? God--you, Rogers, you, are a goddamn weirdo, you know that?”

He shifts his hips and Steve groans, tips his head back and does it again. “Right there,” Steve whispers. “Oh fuck, Tony. Don’t stop. There, that feels--”

He gets a hand on his dick, that big, gorgeous curve, and Tony follows his tempo, gives him the same rhythm, the same stroke inside and out, and when Steve gets close, starts racing for it, Tony finds his mouth and licks the pleas out of him, sucks at every shiver, every sigh.

Steve comes like he’s dying for it, like he’s been holding back for months; it’s always like this with him. There’s a frantic nature to his orgasms, a gorgeous, uncontrolled thrash, and even when he the one holding Tony down, when he’s ostensibly in control, in the moments before he loses it, it’s clear--sky blue, clear crystal--that he’s not.

Maybe neither of them are, when they’re like this. Maybe that’s what makes it so good.

“Yes,” Steve mumbles when Tony stills, when he shouts, when he gives Steve all that he’s got, “yes, Tony, god. Just like that.”

“Should I be worried?” Tony asks later.

“Huh?” Steve’s fingers are tracing over Tony's back, lazy. “About what?”

“The black holes in your memory, dear.”

“I guess. I should get looked at.”

“But? I distinctly heard a but there.”

Steve chuckles and nudges a kiss against Tony’s temple. “But there are worse things that could happen to a guy, right? Forgetting who I was before I loved you.”

“Hmmm.”

“I mean it. Lots of--lots of not great things happened to me in the past, Tony.”

Tony thinks of the faded photographs his dad kept, enough to fill an archive. “Lots of good stuff, too.”

Steve makes a noncommittal noise. “Yeah, but believe me, there’s something to be said for starting over in the here and now. With you.”

There’s a whole novel there, Tony can hear it, caught up in those few lines, but he’s warm and Steve’s holding him and the damn universe and all its problems--including Steve’s magical concussion or sex injury or whatever--can fight its bullshit battles on its own for five more minutes, right?

Goddamn right.

“Well,” he says, settling sweet against Steve’s side, “Swiss cheese brain or not, I love you, Rogers.”

Steve’s arms go impossibly tight for a second and his lips brush Tony’s hair. No words, but a clear message: _I love you, too_.

It's too easy an answer, always; but the best and the simplest, too.

"Fine," Tony sighs. "A nap and then we tap on your noggin, all right?"

But Steve, bless him, doesn't agree. Or argue. Because Steve's already asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> A different take on the amnesia trope, this prompt. I kind of liked it.


End file.
